


in which there are twin Stans

by MaryPSue



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, Stan Twin Theory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 07:53:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23967937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryPSue/pseuds/MaryPSue
Summary: He’d thought they’d both left it all behind them when they left Gravity Falls.He’d thought wrong.
Relationships: Ford Pines & Stan Pines
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	in which there are twin Stans

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this before NWHS aired, which is why the names are swapped. Putting it here for posterity.

Stanford had thought it was over, after Stanley’s secrets had finally come spilling out, after the _demon_ he’d been working with (and really, Stanley? _Really?_ How did you _ever_ think that was a good idea?) had taken over his body and tried to kill Stanford. Had thought Stanley had finally seen the light, seen what chasing down ever-darker avenues of research was doing to him, to them _both_.

He’d thought they’d both left it all behind them when they left Gravity Falls.

He’d thought wrong.

Stanford isn’t, sadly, all that suspicious when his brother stops returning his calls. What had happened in that sleepy little Oregon town had, he fears, put a permanent rift between the twins, one he doesn’t know how to bridge. And to be honest, it’s partly his fault. Every time he thinks about going to see Stanley (then Stanley and his fiancé, then Stanley and his new family), thinks about trying to reach out to his brother, the memories he’d thought he’d securely locked away come seeping back up through the floorboards, black and ugly. His twin’s face, the mirror image of his own, warped by that wicked grin. The shattering sound of explosions rattling in his skull and shaking his bones as everything they’d worked for, everything he’d started to fear, fell apart around them.

His brother, laughing with a voice that wasn’t his, crowing, “And I could never have done _any_ of it if he hadn’t invited me in!”

Last time he’d tried to reach out to Stanley, Stanley had let him fall.

And there’s a stubborn, spiteful streak in both the Pines boys that has Stanford nursing the wound and wanting to return the favour.

So he isn’t suspicious, when Stanley refuses to speak to him on the phone, when he develops a friendship with Rita, with Rita and Stanley’s son, in only a handful of short conversations asking them to pass on messages, never seeing them face to face. And he isn’t prepared for the day that Mark says, “I’m sorry, Uncle Stan, I can’t pass that along for you. Dad’s picked up and gone.”

“Gone? Whaddaya mean, _gone_?”

Stanford can almost hear the shrug in Mark’s voice. “I mean, left. Took off. He took early retirement this year, you know.”

Stanford hadn’t.

“He said he wanted to see something of the world, now that he’ll have all this time on his hands. He’s been gone for a while, now. Mentioned taking a trip up the West Coast -” And that’s when Mark’s voice goes tinny and quiet and distant and Stanford realizes he’s let the phone slip from his suddenly bloodless grasp. The world is spinning too fast and the air’s grown too thick to breathe because _he knows where Stanley’s gone, and he knows what Stanley’s doing, and they’d all better pray he doesn’t get there too late_.

He gets there too late.

There’s an old shack on the edge of town that the locals say was rented out by some kind of travelling researcher. Stanford already knows the way. He tries asking around a little more about this stranger, but no one seems to know anything. No one seems to remember _him_ , either. Has he really changed that much? Ah well, maybe it’s for the best.

The shack hasn’t been abandoned long, maybe only a few days. The doors are all hanging open and there are dirty dishes in the sink, just starting to smell. The bedclothes are still rumpled, there’s a toothbrush in the bathroom that’s still slightly damp to the touch, and on the calendar hanging in the office, July the Fourth is circled in red. With all the fireworks going off, no one would have noticed an explosion or two and some strange flashes of light. No one would suspect a thing. Clever. But then, Stanley always was the clever one.

He’d certainly fooled Stanford.

There’s a vending machine in the living room that’s sitting askew, and Stanford doesn’t even have to punch in the code that he knows by heart (it’ll be the same one, some things don’t change) to push it open and slip down the stairs.

The new and improved portal is a lot bigger, and a lot deader. Lying discarded in front of its wide, staring single eye, amidst the piles of rubble and the splashes of dried blood, are a too-familiar pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

It’ll take some work to get the portal back into working order, he can see _that_ at a glance, and Stanford doesn’t have the complete plans. ( _Never did_ , a nasty little voice whispers in the back of his mind, _he didn’t trust you enough_.) But he can put this right.

He has to.

He stands in the middle of the portal room and asks the empty air, “Stanley, what did you _do_?”

The silence is his only answer.


End file.
